


Thanks (For Nothing)

by Ghostiekitty



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: BAMF Morse, Box is Being Box, Choose Your Own Adventure, Endeavour Morse Whump, Gen, Jago is a Dick, Minor Spoilers, Morsetache or No, Season/Series 06, Thursday SMASH, like one line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostiekitty/pseuds/Ghostiekitty
Summary: In which DS Jago does a bad, bad thing.A Four-Part Tale.





	1. You're the Worst

The inquiry had been a simple one to begin with, but would end up being anything but routine.

DCI Ronnie Box placed the telephone back onto its receiver, nodding towards his bagman DS Alan Jago a desk over.

"Just got word Sturgill's back in town. Why don't you run over, see what he knows about our missing birdy?" Ian Sturgill, a petty crook thrice familiar with the county jail, had been wanted for questioning concerning the disappearance of one Alice Wilkins, the 'birdy.' But of sixteen and sweet, Alice had last been seen in conversation with Sturgill, and an unwanted one, at that. It was unclear whether they had known one another prior to their encounter, but the pair had been witnessed near Ian's flat, only a street parallel to the route she generally traveled home for several blocks.

After failing to appear for a previous engagement hosted by a schoolmate the evening before, her friends and parents had become quite concerned, reaching out to the police for help.

Her handbag, stained with blood, had been located in a ditch not three blocks away less than five hours later.

Jago rolled his chair back, in the process of grabbing a set of car keys when Box added, "And take Morse with you."

The DS paused, looking back at Ronnie with a wave at the empty desk just outside their office. "Where's Thursday, then?" he asked instead, his feelings concerning Morse no secret to those they called colleagues. If he could work with somebody, _anybody_ but Morse, then that would just make his day-- 

"Busy."

 _Ah. Just bloody perfect_ , Alan thought with a visible grimace. 

"Then I'd best go roust that miserable, odd little sod from his lair, then," Jago sighed, pocketing the keys sourly.

What a wonderful _FUCKING_ day it was going to be. 

* * *

It was thus that DS Endeavour Morse found himself passenger alongside Jago in an unmarked patrol car, en route to an address about an mile outside Oxford proper. 

_"Grab your jacket," Jago had ordered with his sudden, abrupt appearance in Morse's basement doorway. "We're going for a ride."_

__

__

The moment Jago had turned around, Morse rolled his eyes dramatically, Alan already in a mood before the first hour of the day had passed. He knew he wouldn't get two sentences out of his colleague before they were within but a mile of their destination. Morse also knew Alan did so in spite of him, and had grown quite used to his petty slights these past few months. 

He often found himself wondering if Jim Strange had made the right decision, in the end.

"If you're done daydreaming, we're here," Jago announced.

Looking out towards the passenger window without comment, Morse found his attention focused on a shabby, non-descript brick flat two stories in height, the days of the flower beds in the front yard coming into full bloom long since past. Rented currently by one Ian Sturgill, Morse recalled easily, having been given little to no information on the purpose of their excursion.

"Isn't Sturgill the prime suspect in the Wilkins disappearance--?"

"Never you mind," Jago countered immediately, "just follow my lead."

Morse slammed the car door angrily. "Then why did you even _bring me--?_ "

"DCI Box said so, is why. And that's the end of that," Jago declared, rapping on the front door without another word on the matter. " _Police!_ We have a few questions for you, Mr. Sturgill."

A solid ten seconds ticked by without any indication that a single soul was home, much less coming to open the door for the pair of Detective Sergeants. Jago knocked louder. "Police! Open up or we're coming in!" 

Morse whipped around on Jago, blue eyes piercing with incredulity. "We haven't a warrant, and you _know that!_ " he whispered angrily, the other DS' disregard for protocol simply mind-boggling.

Jago glared at him in return. "He's none the wiser!" he hissed back. "Now's not the time for your sanctimonious _bullshit_ , you _utter prat--!_ " 

" _Wait_ ," Morse demanded suddenly, palm raised to silence Jago as he heard a solid _thump_ from the side of the flat. Looking down the alleyway connecting the front of the property to the back, he saw a figure tumble out of the side window, trainers hitting the pavement a mere second before sprinting off into a run.

" _After him!_ " Jago yelled, but Morse was already three steps ahead, tearing down the alley like a greyhound chasing a hare.

" _Police!_ " Endeavour hollered at the rapidly fleeing suspect, arms pumping to keep up and not lose sight of the man he assumed to be Sturgill as he turned the corner. He could hear Jago's heels clacking against the pathway in tune with his, before they tapered off suddenly. 

Before he could think further on it, Morse was tackled fully as he made the corner, body _slamming_ onto the concrete. His surprised yelp turned into a cry of pain upon feeling at least two of his ribs crack against the unyielding surface. He found himself to be robbed of air for the moment, the suspect having had fallen atop him so that he lay crushed under the extra weight. The assailant hadn't an easy go of it, either, scrambling with a groan to regain his footing once more. 

Morse lashed out, scrabbling to find purchase on some item of clothing before the other man could escape. With a shout of frustration, he was able to successfully hold onto the back of his jacket, yanking the man backwards onto the pathway beside him. He landed with a grunt, immediately flinging an elbow aimed squarely for Morse's diaphragm. The wiry detective rolled inwards, so that it caught him in the hip, instead. Better to be bruised than down for the count. He wasn't able to block the fist that drove into his left eye, however, the full-force of the blow knocking his head back against the pavement.

Morse gasped loudly, curling into himself and pressing a palm to his injured eye as his suspect found his way upright once again. 

_Where the HELL was Jago...?_

With a pained grunt, Morse rolled into his hands and knees and looked up, his one clear eye focused on the fleeing man's form. This was _far_ from over, he decided, and pushed himself up to his feet, albeit a bit dizzily. Listing to the side somewhat, he tore after the perpetrator, leveraging himself off against the brick wall before he could run into it. 

Whatever his assailant was running from, it made him erratic in his movements, seeking the path of least resistance as he booked it across several greenspaces and asphalt lots connecting the flat to those dwellings surrounding it. Endeavour felt his lungs would burst time he nearly caught up with the other figure, who was attempting to scale a low, brick wall. While his hands scrabbled against the crumbling masonry, Morse leapt as high as he could, encircling the man about the waist with long arms as he took hold, dragging him to the gravel below.

The man cried out as they both landed, hard, and he flailed his arms wildly as he attempted another lucky strike against Morse, but the copper-haired detective was ready for him, this time. He ducked one swinging blow that threatened to clock him, good and proper, throwing himself forward and using his weight to pin the suspect below him. 

" _Enough!_ " Morse yelled in anger, but a well-aimed knee caught him solidly in the chest, enough to send him tumbling onto his back beside the other man. Though both a fair bit winded, the man struggled to his feet, unleashing a vicious kick into Morse's cracked ribs. Morse yelped sharply in pain, curling into his side before attempting to crawl away on his hands and knees away from his assailant, heart hammering within his chest as the thought that he may not win this battle, after all. 

Sturgill, if it were he, was very clearly desperate.

A fiercely delivered and weighty punch caught Morse square in the upper back, driving the air from his lungs as he landed solidly on his chest with a muffled groan.

" _Stay down_ , you _fucking_ pig," his attacker spat harshly, rearing back for another kick, this one aimed for Morse's face. 

Endeavour saw an opportunity, and lashed out with his arm, striking the man behind the knee of the leg he had planted securely on the ground. With the momentum of the kick already in mid-swing, the man toppled onto his back with a surprised cry, his head glancing off the edge of the brick wall. He then lay still, slumped against the ground half-conscious with a low moan.

Morse propped himself onto his elbows, breathing hard, surveying the pitiable man before him. Pushing himself up with a pained grunt, he knelt over the fallen assailant, flipping him onto his front with considerable effort. His ribs were most _definitely_ broken.

"Serves you right," he muttered, securing the man's hands behind his back before locking them into place with his handcuffs. He wasn't going anywhere, not anytime soon. Morse then sat back on his haunches, clutching his ribs with a hiss as he took a moment to just breathe. 

He let a few moments pass before eyeing his surroundings for the first time, spotting an overturned milk crate nearby. Getting up slowly, he gingerly walked over to it, sitting atop it while he willed his heart rate to steady out, adrenaline pumping throughout his veins with a fury. Then he sat, slumped over as he rested his forehead against clasped hands.

 _Well_ , he thought to himself, _that was certainly exciting_. 

Not a moment more had passed before Jago turned the nearest corner, trotting up like a prized show pony. Morse tilted his face up warily, too exhausted to properly convey his absolute disgust for the man.

Alan paused over the mostly-unconscious suspect, jostling his stilled form with a foot to see if he was still alive. The low groan he uttered assured he was. He then looked angrily towards Morse.

"What's the matter with you? We needed him conscious for questioning! He's no use to us like this, not now."

Morse felt himself shaking with what he assumed was repressed anger. "Where _were_ you, Alan?" he asked, voice low as he demanded an answer from his colleague. 

"You're questioning _me?_ " Jago demanded, incredulous. "I was radioing for back-up, like you're _supposed_ to. Need I remind you this isn't playtime in the Cowley sandbox anymore?" 

Endeavour barked a bitter laugh, rising up as steadily as he could while glaring at the other DS. "Back-up?! You were supposed to be _my back-up_ ," he snarled. "He was _one man_ , not an _army--_ " 

Before he could rise to his full height, a sharp pain blossomed between his shoulder blades, his breath hitching with the motion.

"He got in plenty of good, solid punches while you were radioing for _back-up_ ," Morse seethed, cradling his injured ribs as he stood.

Jago eyed him derisively. "Had you let me handle him, then I wouldn't have to hear you complain about it."

A loud scoff from Morse was the nicest way he could imagine to respond to that jab. " _Handle him?!_ With all due respect, I'd tackled the suspect twice over before laying eyes on you just now," he retorted, hackles raised. Jago stepped closer, invading Morse's precious personal space before grabbing Morse's chin, forcing it to the side roughly. Morse drew back in alarm as his counterpart stared overlong at the burgeoning bruise encircling his left eye, with no small measure of appraisal. He roughly jerked his chin away. 

Jago smiled as would a shark.

"I do envy that this bugger got his hands on you. That makes one of us, at least," he smirked, "though, there's a lot less paperwork this way. Knew you couldn't handle him on your own." 

Morse stared aghast in absolute shock as the realization of what had occurred hit him with the full force of a large, cast iron pan.

"You did this on _purpose_ , didn't you?" he accused angrily, full well understanding the repercussions of leveling such an accusation at a fellow officer, but he knew he was right. "Left me to deal with him alone, and _why?_ Make a _fool_ of me? You're a _damned_ sorry excuse for a _police officer--!_ "

Jago shoved Morse across the shoulders none too gently, jostling his ribs, but he held his footing, only stumbling back a bit with a grimace. "You'll watch your mouth, unless you want to end up in Traffic with your old friend Bright. Or, worse." A shiver made its way up Morse's spine that he attributed to Jago's menacing words. "Besides, you haven't any proof, no matter which way you spin it. My word against yours," he finished cooly. 

Endeavour shook his head slowly in disbelief, uttering his next words aloud. "You're...bloody _insane_ , aren't you?" He then froze, eyes startled wide as the thought slipped from his lips. He hadn't meant to say that aloud. The next he knew, Jago's fists were clenched in the lapels of his suit jacket, drawing him close with a snarl. The sudden movement aggravated his back even more. Still, he regretted nothing. 

"The _fuck_ did you just say to me?"

Morse thought to simply repeat himself, but caught sight of Box's patrol unit approaching them over Jago's shoulder. Upon hearing the tyres crunching to stop over gravel, Jago plastered a grin on his face, releasing Morse's lapels with a firm pat to smooth them back into place. "We're not done here," he whispered low, turning to greet the DCI as he exited the vehicle. 

As he was released, Morse shuddered slightly, the pent-up tension rushing out in a breath. His back still ached, though.  


Box stretched out of the car, sauntering over with a curious look at the russet-haired detective and his rapidly swelling eye. "Took some hits, did you?" He then turned to Jago, motioning towards Sturgill with a nod. "Nice work."

Morse stared at the two in utter shock, hands clenching into fists. 

Un. _Fucking_. Believable.

A viscous chill suddenly settled into a pit in the small of his back, crawling up his spine to envelop it with its numbing fingers... 

"Sir--"

Nails then grew from those fingertips, piercing his upper back with agonizing percision...

"In a moment, Morse. The adults are talking," Box called back dismissively.

Inhaling a deep, shuddering breath, Morse sat down on the crate once more, but found that even sitting became an issue with the burgeoning pain. He stood up again slowly, and couldn't help but feel that something was horribly wrong.

He forced himself to pace a bit, features pinched, before approaching the pair once more. "Sir, I think--"

"Good _GOD_ , like a broken record, innit?" Box sighed loudly, eliciting a chuckle from Jago. "What, Morse? What is it? Has Timmy fallen down the well?" At this, Jago laughed hysterically, despite a sharp elbowing from Box. 

Morse closed his eyes, hands on his hips and brow furrowed as he tried to pinpoint the source of his discomfort. Aside from the needling presence of Jago and Box, anyways. "Something's... _not right_ \--" 

Box tipped his head back in exasperation. "Not another _bloody theory_..." 

Morse pushed on despite the sarcastic comment, hunching over slightly. He felt a flush of...anger, perhaps, burning hot against the back of his eyes.

"My back," he ground out, "I think I...landed on it wrong. It... _really hurts_..." He was surprised to find himself slightly out of breath after speaking, his eyes burning more after he opened them to look at Box. What met him was a queer look upon Ronnie's face. 

"Well, go on and have a seat and I'll drive you over to County in a few, unless the needs pressing," Box responded with a wave of his hand, motioning Morse back over to the crate.

Morse nodded slowly, his movements stiff and sluggish. "Alrigh', then..." He then turned around fully, hands pressed low to grasp his aching back. That's when he heard two audibly loud gasps sucked in behind him.

" _Jesus FUCKING Christ,_ " swore Ronnie. 

Morse stopped dead in his tracks, but couldn't quite find the energy to turn around, instead slumping his shoulders as he imagined another cruel jab at his expense. It simply wasn't worth the effort. Before he could continue on, however, a hand forcefully gripped his bicep and spun him around, nearly upending him. He cried out at the sudden movement.

Ronnie Box's eyes were huge and full of terror. "Do you...do you not _feel_ that?" he asked incredulously, eyes affixed to Morse's back. Morse stared at him in confusion, shaking his head slowly. 

"D'you mean where 'e punched me? I said tha' it hurt..." he slurred quietly.

 _And hurt, it should_ , thought Box. For six inches below the nape of Endeavour's neck there protruded the hilt of a knife, three inches of the blade still visible.

The other half lay buried within. 

Blood streamed from the wound, sticking the now-bloodied suit jacket to Morse's skin, soaking through the dark fabric.

Box couldn't _move_ , couldn't _think_ , so he just _stared_ , utterly dumbfounded. He had heard of people being attacked and walking around with a knife in them, but he'd never thought it would happen to one of his own. Ronnie was out of his depth, and he knew it. Morse, however, was growing suspicious. Before he could react, Morse reached his other hand around his back, gritting his teeth against the pain, and found the object of Box and Jago's mutual concern. 

"No, Morse, _don't move--!_ " 

It was too late. Endeavour's fingertips had brushed against the steel of the blade, prodding the metal and hilt gently in disbelief with a small cry as the blade shifted. 

Box then watched as his detective sergeant's blue eyes grew impossibly round as the horror of the situation became a stark reality, his breathing becoming more erratic. "What--what _is that?_ Is that a _knife?_ S-Sir, is that _a knife?!_ " 

"How..." began Jago weakly, "how do you not _feel that?_ " 

Having paled considerably, a keening whimper tore from Morse's lips, and Box could do little to slow his subordinate's descent as he sank to his knees suddenly. 

"Oh... _oh, God--!_ " Endeavour cried out, slumping forward bonelessly as he rapidly slid into shock, Box's grip on his upper arms all that kept his trembling frame upright. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he began to feel the full extent of the blade's depth into his flesh. It was _excruciating_. 

" _Take it out, take it out, PLEASE!_ " he sobbed incoherently, "Just _GET IT OUT!_ " 

Ronnie turned in shock to Jago. "Alan, call it in, get an ambulance here, _now!_ " 

Jago fled to the unit's radio, revisiting every decision he had made in the last hour, as Morse's cries echoed in the background. 

He wasn't proud. 

Behind him, the alarming sounds of his counterpart's pained, staccato breathing filled the air, as Morse weakly sought to evade Box's grasp. 

" _Why won't you just pull it out--!?_ " 

" _I CAN'T!_ " Box yelled in frustration, "You'll _fucking_ bleed to death--!" 

_"I DON'T CARE!_ " 

Ronnie didn't know how to handle Morse on a good day, much less one that involved him bleeding out in front of him from having three inches of solid steel puncturing his back. He hoped the bloody ambulance came quickly, or he'd be answering to Fred Thursday personally. 

It was only a few moments later that Jago came back, kneeling beside the pair. Box looked mortified as he held onto the shivering, slumping form of Morse, who had wrapped his arms around his abdomen as if to physically hold himself together. 

"Only a few minutes out," Alan reported to Box, but didn't expect to be answered by Morse. 

"Why...weren't you there?" he hissed through clenched teeth that chattered as his body grew colder with blood loss. "You could...'ve helped me. I though'...you ha' my back--" 

He swallowed down a whimper of pain that left him gasping, collapsing forward so that his head now rested against Box's chest. Ronnie turned his head slightly to look at his other subordinate. "What's he talking about, Alan?" He asked coldly, not sure if he would rather have heard the truth, or the lie he was certain to hear from Jago's mouth. 

"I don't--he's delirious!" Jago cried, motioning to his injured colleague. 

" _Alan!_ What's he on about, _goddamnit_ , and you'd better be straight with me," the DCI growled at his subordinate.

Jago looked him dead in the eye and said, "I don't know, sir."

Before Box could retort, the sirens from the ambulance could be heard from only a few blocks away, growing rapidly closer with due urgency. Jago stood, moving to flag down the medics to their location, if needed. He hadn't gotten but a few feet before a car sped along the gravel lane towards them, barely coming to a stop before the driver flung himself from the vehicle in a panic.

Alan looked upon the new arrival with dread, taking a step back subconsciously as the man approached with hurried strides, and he swore aloud.

"Bloody hell."

Fred _fucking_ Thursday had arrived.


	2. Elemental Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this week involved being social, new roommates, trivia night, and a rousing match of Egg Roulette, but little time to write. Needless to say, I recognized two things: this wasn't up three nights ago, as promised, and a two part tale cannot contain this story, but four or five probably can. MOAR ANGST!
> 
> This chapter was meant to be an experimental four paragraph interlude, but WHO WAS I KIDDING. It's now a chapter.
> 
> Huzzah!

_Fire._

Morse's back was on _fire._

Delicate nerve endings had been severed with cold steel, the remnants set to blaze with the searing pain of having one's flesh rent in such a vicious and unexpected way.

He hadn't even remembered being stabbed.

Punched, yes. But, punched with a _blade?_ Surely, he would have felt it. 

He had not.

Endeavour's field of vision was also naught but flames, charred around the edges. But, that wasn't right, because that was... _Box?_ Box holding him upright as well as he could, but still Morse's forehead rested atop cool fabric. Not flames...but, the color was right. A modern orange turtleneck beneath a black suitcoat. _It should be burned_ , Morse thought hazily, the smoke getting to him--

No.

There was no smoke, because there was no fire. What had happened? He had been punched in the scuffle, wait-- _no._ Not punched. _Stabbed._ Why hadn't they taken the knife out yet? It hurt him so intensely that it stole his breath and senses from him. Morse was keen to understand that neither Box nor Jago particularly cared for him, but he hadn't thought they'd ever just let him bleed out to his death in front of them. 

That was now two things he had been wrong about that day.

Morse moaned quietly at the thought of what his back must look like, a bloody mess. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself at the mental image, as Box held him at length. Box...and Jago? Where had Jago been? He swore he heard Alan just then, and tilted his neck ever so slightly to ask him where he had gone. _Really_ gone, not just where he had told Morse he had gone. He wasn't certain the words had come out, but they must, because Jago responded to them.

With a lie straight to Ronnie's face.

And then? Then, there were sirens, the fire engine, he assumed, to put out the flames that engulfed him. But, that didn't seem right, either. A few more tears rolled down his cheeks as he tried to form a coherent timeline of events, but the cacophony grew louder with each passing second, and the smoke made it harder to draw a breath. Then, brakes squealed nearby, and Morse thought the fire engine sounded awfully small.

A lone firefighter rushed over towards him, and dropped to his knees beside him. He spoke to him, but Endeavour could scarcely hear the man's deep voice over the sirens that wailed from nearby. How did this firefighter get there first? He should have looked to see, but he'd grown far too tired. Morse only wished to sleep, really, but he couldn't find the energy to raise his head up. The fire...person is speaking to...to whom, exactly? More voices entered the fray.

Endeavour decides he'd rather not be a part of their conversation, their garbled words lulling him into a stupor. Yes, he thinks, he'd rather a kip, instead, but the fire person begins shouting at him, and he finds it odd that the other man sounds an awful lot like a frantic Fred Thursday. 

Endeavour finds that funny, but he isn't sure why, and then he's laughing, only the sound's not right, and there are no tears born of amusement, from splitting his sides with rollicking laughter, or enjoyment. He is instead shaking with searing agony, pulsating from his upper back and radiating down his spine, and curling around the curved bones of his ribs towards his chest, a hollow cavity to better contain the raging fire within. It is all-encompassing, and uses all of his oxygen to stoke the burning embers into a roaring blaze. 

His tears do naught to stifle the flames.

Then more firefighters arrive, boots thundering on gravel, and he is propped up by a new set of sturdy hands, one's that aren't awkward like Ronnie's. Something long is set down beside him on the ground, and suddenly his very soul is being twisted, his body prodded and manouevered onto his belly by multiple sets of unfamiliar and rough hands and his charred back is pressed upon and he screams a shattered, tortured sound, the air burned from his lungs, and then a warm deeply-lined hand grabs his own and rubs it reassuringly. He flutters wet lashes, willing them to open to better view the needling devils around him, for this _must_ be Hell, but simply _cannot._

Morse then decides to take that kip, after all, and sinks weightless into the dark pit that opens below. The familiar hand holds firm upon his own, a comforting weight that anchors him, even in unconsciousness.

It is the only thing he knows to be real.

* * *

Alan is _drowning._

Though there is no water nearby in which to do so, he feels himself being submerged, all the same. 

Fred _fucking_ Thursday is here, out of the _bloody_ blue, here to tend to his injured lapdog. 

Or, maybe Morse was the footstool, like those little pug bastards were bred for back in China. He supposed Thursday thought of himself as the Emperor of the OCP, at one time, or another.

Morse needed to be taken down a peg, anyways, Jago concluded. Let him see what _real_ police work was about. 

That's all Alan had done, but a poor student Morse had made.

It was the Oxford boy's fault for not paying attention enough to avoid getting stabbed.

But, yet, Alan couldn't help feel that he was adrift at sea like so much flotsam, attempting to swim his way back towards shore through the tangled jetsam of his actions. With Thursday's eyes upon him, he certainly felt like a man left alone on a sinking ship.

His only worry was that not even Box would throw him a life saving ring, if the truth of his actions ever came to light.

He'd just have to see to it that they wouldn't, was all.

By any means necessary.

* * *

What on _earth_ was Fred Thursday doing here? 

Though Ronnie was the de facto Detective Chief Inspector of the Thames Valley Police, it was no secret that he who held the most storied reputation in all the department was DI Fred Thursday. While Box had shrugged off most of the chatter surrounding the lengths Thursday went to in order to dispense justice and protect his own, he also wasn't stupid enough to believe that those tales were all rumours. 

Though he didn't believe that Thursday had ever actually killed anybody, Box wasn't about to ask him directly, either.

What happened in the Smoke best stayed in the Smoke.

And there he was, dark coat flapping about his heels as he jogged over, his weathered face appearing more ragged with each swift step that brought him closer to them.

 _Them._

Box awkwardly held onto Morse even as he sank against his chest, shivering uncontrollably with the increased blood loss one experiences after having a six-inch kitchen knife driven half-way into one's back. He hoped beyond reason that nothing more could have been done to prevent this vicious attack on an officer of the law, that Alan had given his all to assist Morse prior to the incident, but he suspected, even on a surface level, that Jago had lied to him outright. 

He knew Alan to be a cunning liar, and one of the most conniving men he'd ever crossed paths with on or off the force, but that didn't mean they weren't still mates. Never, however, did he believe that Jago would turn on one of his own colleagues unwarranted, hadn't ever considered the scenario, if he was being honest with himself. The pair had earned one's another's trust over the years, and thus Box trusted him with his own life. 

And the lives of others, such as DS Endeavour Morse, for one. And he hated to think that Jago had broken that trust.  


It was also entirely plausible that Morse had been mistaken, taken a too-solid blow to the head, muddled the lad's senses. 

That made a fair amount more sense, actually, when he thought about it.

Now, he only need convince Fred Thursday, for all their sakes.

* * *

One look at his former bagman, and the air itself had been stolen from Fred's lungs.

_There was a knife wedged between his shoulder blades._

Box's confusion on how to physically handle Morse surprised him, holding him awkwardly at arms length instead of trying to get him into a more comfortable position as he bled profusely, gasping breaths rattling his lean frame. 

_Jago's shiftiness and indifference ENRAGED him._

He hadn't the proof, but Jago's uneasiness was telling. All Fred needed was the irrefutable evidence that the horrendous scene before him was somehow Alan's fault. He would deal with it after...

_After...after the paramedics stabilized him..._

Fred grabbed Morse's hand, grasping it firmly, letting him know that despite recent harsh words, he would still be there for him.

_After they extricated the blade and repaired the lad's back..._

He watched helplessly as the medical professionals positioned Morse face-down onto a stretcher, and packed towels around the blade to staunch the bleeding. 

_After he was released from hospital, good as new and complication-free..._

Morse's hoarse screams as his wound was pressed upon threatened Fred's composure, and he grasped Endeavour's hand tighter as a small measure of comfort.

 _After..._

Thursday would handle Jago, if warranted, after Endeavour had been given the all-clear.

The alternative was unfathomable.


	3. A Plausible Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think my Jago is OOC, I remember canon.

As quickly as the sirens had arrived, so, too, had they gone, their mournful dirge now only a distinct memory of those present. 

Despite the hurried influx of vehicles occupied by both medical personnel and additional transport officers only moments ago, but three persons remained. Though still and silent, the air about them remained charged with electric tension.

With a thunderous gaze affixed to the space previously occupied by the ambulance just minutes before, Thursday pointedly sought out Jago's own and held it firmly, like lightning striking down a skittish rabbit. 

"What happened?" he growled, searching Jago's face alone for the slightest telling twitch or spasm, anything that might implicate him in the horrendous fiasco that had occurred under his supervisory watch. "How is it that Morse is on his way to hospital bleeding out with three inches of steel _shoved_ into him? _What. Happened?_ " 

Box held up a single hand, meant to placate his subordinate, but having the opposite effect. "Fred, listen, I'm certain Alan has a plausible explanation--"

Thursday tensed, but still bore down on Jago's expressionless face. "With all due respect, sir, I wasn't asking _you_ , I was asking _him._ Where _were you_ when Morse was _attacked?_ " 

Jago stamped his foot down in anger, hands running through his hair before clenching into fists at his sides. " _Bloody hell_ , Thursday! I was on the radio, calling for help! Your boy jumped in blind again, took off after Sturgill before I even realized what he'd done. Called after him, I did, but he don't _listen_ , and you know it! I'm _fucking_ tired of him putting _my life_ on the line. _Leash_ is too long, you ask me--" 

"You _bloody bastard--!_ " Fred roared, advancing towards Jago while moving to push up his sleeves. 

" _THAT'S ENOUGH!_ " Ronnie commanded, positioning himself betwixt his subordinates before they could come to blows. "DS Jago followed protocol and radioed in for assistance, Thursday, there's no way around it, we all heard him! Blatantly accusing a fellow officer of misconduct without sufficient evidence isn't the best use of our time, right now--"

Thursday gritted his teeth, whipping his head around to face Box. " _Says you --!_ " 

"You're _damned right_ , says me!" Box countered heatedly, " _I'm_ in charge here, Thursday, and you'd do best not to forget it. Are we clear?"

Fred levelled his gaze and held it against Box's own, briefly slipping it over to Jago before meeting the DCI's once more. " _Sir_ ," he acquiesced curtly. 

Box eyed him another moment longer. "Good." 

Turning to Jago, he motioned towards his unmarked unit with a nod, Alan and Morse's own having been used to transport Sturgill to medical. "Drive us over to the hospital, yeah? I want to question Sturgill the moment he wakes up. And Thursday," he added, almost as an afterthought, "take the afternoon, have a pint, or two. Morse'll be in surgery some hours yet. We'll send a uniform to see him when he's out. Naught to worry about, then."

As he watched them pull out onto the roadway, Thursday found he believed just the opposite. He certainly didn't want the face of a random colleague to be the first his former bagman saw upon waking, and he'd be damned if he was going to let Box and Jago run Morse through the mud while the gravely injured detective sergeant lay an unconscious, bloody mess face-down in the back of an ambulance at that very moment. It wasn't right, and he'd out the truth, one way or another.

By any means necessary.

Beginning with Ian Sturgill.

* * *

Morse was wheeled into surgery and sedated even before he had returned to a conscious state, his last memory that of collapsing face-down onto a gurney being pushed with utmost haste into the back of an ambulance as he bled profusely.

He'd be in surgery another few hours yet, his wounded back far more complicated to repair than had first appeared. There were ribs that needed bound, and a mild concussion to be monitored. It would be some time yet before he would eventually awaken.

Though the plastic chair would prove uncomfortable, it mattered not to his lone guest, who preferred to keep a watchful eye on the drugged and recovering detective. When he returned, he would keep vigil until Morse finally woke, so that his face was the first Endeavour saw upon returning to consciousness, for there were things to discuss.

Jago would make sure of it.

* * *

Thursday arrived at the hospital undetected by both Box and Jago, trailing them from blocks away in the Jag, and in the shadows while on foot. They suspected nothing. He found a suitable position from which to surveil the pair as they entered Ian Sturgill's room, having been allowed entry after the man gained clarity and had a thorough gauzing of his superficial head wound. Due to the urgency of the case at hand, they had pushed some boundaries in gaining access to the injured suspect, and would certainly gain the information they needed at that time. The DI had faith that the two of them would find Alice Wilkins, in one state or another, preferably alive, but that wasn't why he was there.

Fred would be getting some answers of his own, too.

He bided his time in a nearby waiting area, slouched in his seat and his head tipped low, while able to view anyone coming or going clearly through their reflection in a window visible from his spot in the corner. Nearly an hour had passed before they finally exited, exchanging a few words before heading in opposite directions. Thursday waited only a few moments before approaching the head duty nurse.

"DI Fred Thursday, Thames Valley. I'm sorry, miss, but there's one more issue we need verification on that my colleagues weren't aware of, unfortunately--"

The nurse shook her head firmly, holding up a hand to halt any further words. "I'm sorry, but the patient, despite his actions, needs rest--"

Fred took his hat off, holding it close to his chest with an earnest face. He felt badly about it, but not for long. 

"I know, miss, but we believe the girl to be closer than we previously thought. Please, it's urgent and won't take more than ten minutes, I promise."

The head nurse eyed him, holding steady her gaze as she studied Fred. Finally, she sighed, arching an eyebrow in annoyance. "You'll get _five._ "

Fred needed no more than two. He smiled graciously as she ushered him into the room. "Thank you for your cooperation, miss." She then made a point of looking directly at the clock on the wall and then back to him before shutting the door firmly behind her. The message was all too clear. 

So, too, was Ian Sturgill's exasperation at having another police interview so soon after the last one.

"Bloody policemen! What've I supposedly done _now?_ I've told the other two idiots all I know, which is nothin'."

Thursday pushed aside the realization that the reason Morse was in hospital was because of the man that lay before him, no more mobile than his own detective was at that moment. Fred wanted desperately to unleash his anger upon the assailant, but found the strength to rein himself in. He was there for a much larger fish, after all. 

Standing at the foot of Sturgill's bed, the murder suspect's left wrist handcuffed solidly to the bedframe, Thursday bore his darkened gaze upon him, fisted hands held tightly at his sides. "You hurt a good man today. He didn't deserve that, and I hope you rot for what you've done, but I'm not here to pass judgement on you." He leaned forward on the railing, Sturgill's eyes trying to evade his own in their intensity. "There will be time for that, later. I want to know what you heard and saw from the moment those officers arrived at your front door. Tell me _exactly_ what happened."

Sturgill eyed Fred for a long moment, before giving his head a nearly imperceptible nod. "Alright. They banged on my door, wantin' me for questionin', so I slid out through the window and took off. I hear them both coming in fast down the side alley, but only saw the one so I tackled him, the lanky fellow." Ian shrugged. "He was more of a fighter than I pegged him for, I'll give him that." 

Fred clenched his jaw, working it as he considered the information he had been presented.

"And you're sure about this, that only one followed you in pursuit?"

Sturgill gave a cocked, humorless grin. "About as sure as I am that I'm married to this metal frame, right now," he replied, holding up his wrist and dangling the cuff attached. "Thought it a raw deal, though, since it were the other one that told him to run after me in the first place. Look, I didn't _really_ mean to stab him--"

Breathing measuredly through his nose for a long moment, Fred then turned on his heel, walking briskly out of the room, without another glance at Sturgill.

There would be hell to pay.

* * *

Morse awakens with a start, though sluggishly, as if treading through treacle. 

He finds that he is floating upon a white, pillowed surface, though he suspects the distinct feeling may be due to the familiar presence of morphine, and he filters out the dream-like sensations from the reality.

He's in hospital, that much is apparent by the rough feel of the bedsheets beneath him and the ever-present smell of antiseptic cleaning solution. Having been propped up on his left side, by no less than half a dozen pillows nestled behind him, or so it feels like, Morse also realized his ribs are tight, and sore. It's definitely not the first time they've been bound, but perhaps not this efficiently. 

He remembers them breaking.

The detective then finds his brain creeping backwards in time through the paces of his latest misadventure. Morse finds it doesn't take long, in the least bit, to begin recalling just what landed him in hospital this time around: a blade driven three inches between his shoulder blades by an assailant who had missed his spine by no more than an inch. He had learned as much through snippets of conversation that had occurred around him, involving him, but unable to respond. 

It was a lot to consider, almost having been paralyzed for life.

Or _worse_.

He startles upon seeing movement approaching him from the foot of his bed, and he blinks drowsily, assuming the nurse to be in the vicinity. But, when he is finally able to focus clearly on the form standing before him, he discovers it isn't a nurse at all, but the last person expected to be standing uncomfortably close to his bedside.

Jago.

Morse tenses involuntarily, unable to move further away, as he so desperately wants to. He also didn't want to give Jago the satisfaction of witnessing how badly the other man unnerved him. _Just how long had he been standing there?_ Morse remained still, jaw clenched as he lay immobilized on his left side, and warily watched his colleague.

Alan grins without smiling, pulling up a chair and spinning it around with a low scrape against the tile to sit so that he can lean over the hard plastic edge, arms crossed as he hedges even further into Endeavour's personal space. Morse swallows thickly.

"Hello, Morse."

Morse stared back with a soft, "Jago." 

"I see they've got you propped up like a corpse. Pale enough to be mistaken for one, too." Alan's attempt at humour falls flat, and _really_ , Morse thinks, _how am I supposed to respond to that?_ "They stitch you back up, then?" 

Endeavour's eyes narrowed in contempt, his words slurring slightly. "If you mean to ask if the surgeons were able to keep me from bleeding to death from the gaping puncture wound in my back, then yes." He watched as Alan's thinly veiled congenial expression soured to something rotten. 

"I don't even know why I _bother_ with you --" Jago spat, before Morse interjected.

"But, you _didn't_ , did you?" Morse queried angrily. "You didn't _bother_ pursuing the suspect, and now I'm in hospital because of that. _Why_ are you _here_?" His distrust in Jago ran so deeply that he hadn't realized how badly he had started shaking, scanning the hallway behind Alan as his voice raised in pitch. "Where's Box?" 

Jago sighed loudly, wiping a hand over his face. " _DCI Box_ is in the car out back, probably having a smoke, I reckon." He then stood suddenly, chair legs creaking as he moved to begin pacing the small space. "Look, Morse...we need to talk. Just the two of us. What you think you saw, what you thought happened? It didn't, and we need to set the record straight--" 

Endeavour stared at him with all the intensity his blue eyes could muster, the ferocity of his gaze ignited by anger or fear, he wasn't certain which. " _No._ No, we _don't._ I know what I saw, and what I didn't see: _You_. Look, just...leave, _please--_ " 

Jago slowly moved towards the door as if to depart, his hand hovering over the doorknob in contemplation. He then proceeded to do just the opposite, swinging the door shut and securing the lock with a firm press of his thumb. The soft _click_ sent a frigid shiver down Morse's spine, setting him on edge even more than he already had been. The detective sergeant then walked back towards his chair, pulling the privacy curtain behind him as he did so. 

"I was hoping you'd be more reasonable about this," Jago said crisply, "but, I should have known better. It is _you_ , after all." Endeavour watched helplessly as the rapidly increasing beep of his heart rate monitor went silent when Jago turned the volume down, moving next to peel away the tape affixing the intravenous morphine in place. In one jagged move it was ripped from his skin, eliciting a pained gasp from the young detective. _This could not be happening_...Morse's eyes widened in fear, his colleague kicking the chair aside with a loud clatter as he leaned closer. 

"Alan," Morse began, his voice warbling more than he would have liked, his own eyes searching Jago's own for some indication that this was one great joke on his behalf, a fool's bluff. "What are you _doing--?_ " 

Jago placed the needle and tubing from Morse's hand to the side, instantly halting the necessary flow of numbing medication to the younger man's bloodstream. A spot of red pooled at the injection site. Gripping the cold, metal railing and leaning over so that his face was level with Morse's own, he growled low into his ear, "Whatever it takes for you to stop _fucking_ around with my livelihood. This gets out, I'll be lucky to be reassigned to traffic duty with your pal, Bright, making sure the little kiddies don't get run over. But, that's not _good enough_ , Morse, because I'm _better_ than that. There's no money in _policework_ , so I'm going to do what it takes to make sure I stay sitting pretty where I am right now. Even your thick, _fucking_ skull must understand that, hmm?" 

The hair on Morse's arms stood at attention, Jago's threats sending a rippling chill over his flesh. "Why didn't you just...follow me? Down the alley?" he asked sadly, and watched as Jago's eyes closed in exasperation with a sigh. 

_"Good _Christ,_ you're impossible."_

__

Then he pressed the heel of his palm down onto Endeavour's side, deeply into his broken ribs. 

Morse gave a strangled yelp, arching his back the best he could without aggravating his stitches. 

" _S-stop--!_ " he whispered breathlessly, fingers scrabbling at the starched hospital sheets, breath hitching with the sudden, sharp pain. 

Alan shrugged non-chalantly, tilting his head in question at Morse. "Why should I? Tell Box it was your fault, and I'll walk." 

" _No!_ " Morse ground out, matching Alan's gaze with his own. 

Jago then bore down even harder, grinding his palm further into Endeavour's fractured ribcage. Morse swallowed down a sob, clenching his teeth as he clutched white knuckles into the sheets, twisting them within the fabric as he curled inward. 

"I swear...I'll scream--!" Morse panted out as his body shook uncontrollably. 

"So? _Scream._ " 

So swiftly does Jago firmly wrap his open palm around Morse's mouth and clamp down tightly that it completely catches Endeavour by surprise, fingers digging into his cheeks hard enough to bruise. 

He soon discovers why. 

Alan moves the hand pressing deep into his side around to his upper back, and Morse fights him, despite his limited range of motion. Though his left arm is pinned, he swings wildly with his right, only able to land feeble blows onto Jago's upper arm. He doubts it's hard enough to bruise, given the awkward position. "Tenacious little _cockroach_ , aren't you?" Jago growls, then curls his left hand into a fist, and grinds his knuckles into Morse's back, directly over where the blade entered just hours before. His right hand holds firm against Endeavour's agonized screams, vibrating against his palm as they are rendered ineffective by his vicious grip. 

Morse scratches wildly at Jago's hand, clawing at the other man in terror as his back spasms against the rigid hospital bed. He can feel blood seeping through the stitches of his wound, and fresh tears escape unwittingly. Alan pulls him close in a grotesque gesture of kindness, shushing him as one would a child as he mimics a comforting hug. It is anything but, as now both of Morse's arms are pinned. 

"Shh, shh, shhhhh. You brought that one on yourself. No one to blame, but you. Now," he continued, holding the trembling man tightly, "are you going to tell DCI Box what _you think_ happened, or what _I think_ happened?" 

Morse's eyes were squeezed tight when Alan removed his hand slightly, just enough to allow him to answer. 

He panted through the sharp pain overwhelming his senses, and opened his eyes to meet Jago's gaze directly. 

Gritting his teeth, Morse spat out hoarsely, " _Fuck you--_ " 

Alan sighed in disappointment, replacing his hand over Morse's mouth before his other pressed firmly against the knife wound once more, unrelenting in pressure while Endeavour bucked and sobbed beneath him. 

Then, suddenly, finally, Morse stilled, and Alan watched as his eyes rolled back into their sockets for the second time that day, his struggling body falling limp into his grasp. Jago then set him back down, and stole quietly from the room. 

He would finish what he started, later. 

* * *

Box was finishing his third cigarette when Jago finally appeared, sliding into the unit's passenger seat. 

He tamped the ashes out the door before shutting it. "So? They let you see Morse?" 

Alan nodded vaguely, avoiding eye contact. "Yeah, yeah, he was there. Still out of it, but alive." 

Stamping out the remnants of his smoke, Ronnie jerked his chin at Jago's hands, noting the thin scratches on his knuckles. "What happened there?" Box asked next, eyebrows knitted together in confusion at the fresh wounds on his sergeant's fingers. 

Shifting uncomfortably in the seat, Alan spared a look at his superior as he ran a hand over his face. "Look, there was a minor...incident, I'll explain on the way. Can we just...get out of here?" 

Box eyed his subordinate incredulously. "What do you mean, an ' _incident----?_ " He then watched as Jago's eyes grew wide in fear, staring at something concerning in the rearview mirror. 

" _Drive!_ " Jago yelled suddenly, whipping his head around to peer out the back window, before turning to face Ronnie. 

When Ronnie looked into his own rearview mirror, what he saw was nothing that came to bear good news. Bearing down on them like a wild, great jungle cat, was one Fred Thursday, looking positively murderous. 

"Alan," Box exclaimed, grabbing onto the wrist of his subordinate, the one with the freshly marked scratches, "what the _fuck_ have you done?" 


	4. What Comes Around, Goes Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate the title of this chapter to the late, great, Dr. John, New Orleans musician extraordinaire. The last line is a spoiler for the end of S6, but for those watching the new season now, you'll get there soon enough! Thanks for reading and commenting, y'all! It's given me life during this harried Alaskan tourism season.

Thursday had nearly allowed himself to be seen by Jago as the latter swiftly fled Morse's room, but managed to escape detection as he rounded a corner swiftly, pressing himself flat as the DS made haste towards the rear of the hospital.

He had not expected him to still be in the building, after having seen both he and Box exit Sturgill's quarters earlier. But, they had each gone in separate directions...Fred's entire body tensed when he considered that Alan had been in Morse's room, _alone_. Perhaps Ronnie had ordered him to check on Morse's status before leaving? Thursday knew, however, that Jago often worked from his own agenda, whether Box was aware of it, or not. 

Making certain Jago wouldn't loop back in his direction anytime soon, Fred entered quietly into Morse's room, half-closing the door behind him.

Though he had stood in vigil over Morse's recovering form in a hospital bed more times than he cared to recollect, Fred was immediately struck by the wrongness of it all. The feeling went beyond the superficial, however, well-past the very idea that the tableau before him should not be, that the horrific incident should not have happened in the first place. No, the scene he was presented with was altogether _off_ , and it made Fred's keen observational capabilities spin absolutely out of control as he pieced together the off-kilter puzzle.

It was quiet, deathly silent, save for Morse's soft, occasional intake of breath. There should be more sound, incessant and shrill...It was then Fred noticed the heart rate monitor had been silenced, though the screen was functioning perfectly. A series of erratic spikes had leveled out to less than encouraging patterns, suggesting that Morse was not resting as peacefully as he should have been under sedation. He should have been pumped so thoroughly with morphine as if to appear melted into the mattress, not curled up with tension as he currently was, the sheets surrounding him twisted instead of smoothed. A small rivulet of blood lazily trailed down Morse's index finger, dripping down a hand that had been flung over the metal railing and onto the tiled floor. 

It stemmed from the intravenous injection site, yet no tubing was to be seen. Had it fallen out? Fred noted that Morse also lay on his back atop a haphazard pile of pillows, the corner of one peeking out behind his shoulder.

It was stained red with blood, expanding outward before his very eyes.

His pulse quickening, Thursday placed a hand softly upon Morse's cheek, tapping it lightly in an effort to rouse him. It was wet, and paler than it should have been, grey enough that Fred was able to make out the bruised indentations of fingerprints along his jawline, five in total. His brow, too, was knitted and creased, his lips parted with slightly gasping breaths, all the signs of one not restful in his unconsciousness. A slow-burning rage filled the crevices of Thursday's soul, growing hotter with each passing moment. 

" _Morse?_ Morse, can you hear me? C'mon, lad, _wake up!_ "

Fred gingerly placed his left hand under Morse's shoulder, and rolled him over towards him as best he could, mindful of his ribs, to ascertain the damage. Stitches freshly torn, blood had pooled freely beneath him, soaking the pillows and the white linens. Thursday gasped aloud. 

Someone had done this on _purpose_.

_"Help! I need help! Nurse! In here, please!"_

And that someone was _Jago_.

Thursday held Endeavour close to him, one arm around his shoulder, the other cradling his head to support it, unwilling to place him back down upon the bloodied sheets until help arrived. He then felt the younger man stir in his arms. 

Fred loosened his hold, angling him down to get a better look at his face. "Morse? Endeavour, lad, it's going to be alright, help's on the way--"

He didn't expect the sharp intake of breath and bubbling sob of panic that came moments before Morse began to _fight_ against him.

Morse's brilliant blue eyes were bleary and muddled with pain, and he looked through Thursday, rather than at him. _"Alan!?"_ he slurred. _"Stop!"_

Thursday could listen no more. A clatter of footsteps approached, and as he handed a weakly combative Morse over to more capable hands amidst shouts of concern, his vision narrowing into a tunnel surrounded by a blazing, red corona of rage, he straightened his shoulders, and left the room with a single purpose in mind.

Endeavour wouldn't be the only officer to be admitted to the hospital that day.

* * * 

As concerning as the freshly clawed scratches on the back of Jago's hand were, nothing was as alarming as the intensity with which Fred Thursday bore down on their vehicle, specifically the passenger door. With all of the misplaced trust he had put in Jago over the years, Ronnie knew at that moment his subordinate had finally crossed a line Box himself had most likely willfully ignored, and both would pay for dearly.

Not as much as Alan would, however, as he was too slow in hitting the passenger door lock before Thursday flung it open, and hauled him out with a firm hand clutched at the suit fabric at the base of Jago's neck. "Fred, _listen--_ " Jago began as Box scrambled out of the car, but would get no further. 

Ronnie watched in horror as Thursday brought one tightened fist up high, and with devastating accuracy punched Jago square between the eyes, blood erupting from his broken nose as he yelped in pain and surprise. 

_"Fred, stop it!"_

With utter rage clearly present in every weathered line and crease of his face, Box knew that the distinguished DI was on a single-minded mission to pound his DS into the earth below, and there would be nothing he could do to stop him. At that moment, Ronnie came to the realization that not only did Jago probably deserve it, but that the rumours surrounding Thursday's past in the Smoke were true. 

_All of them._

Thursday spared Box a single glance as Jago stumbled back into the patrol unit, clutching at his bloodied, broken nose. He then turned his gaze back towards Alan, shaking his head emphatically. "Not this time. _Sir._ " 

A hook to the jaw sent Jago careening to the ground, half-lying and half-sitting on the pavement while propped against the vehicle. Alan grunted loudly, scrambling backwards as best he could.

"What the _fuck,_ Thursday?!" Jago screamed, his attempt at a menacing appearance marred by the confused look on his bloodied face. 

"Don't you _dare_ act surprised!" Thursday roared, grabbing Alan by his suit front. "Don't you _dare_ to beg me for mercy, or forgiveness, not after what _you did to him!_ " He proceeded to haul him up the side of the car, banging the back of Jago's head against the side of the metal frame as he shook him. "How _could_ you? Hadn't _bled enough_ for your mistakes, hmm? I'm surprised you didn't push the other _three inches_ into him when you had the chance!" Fred punctuated this by throwing Alan bodily to the ground, where he landed on his side.

Box ran his hands through his hair, pacing behind the pair like an anxious terrier. "Oh, for _God's sakes_ , Thursday! What's this all about then?! We're in _public--_ " 

Staring down at his prey as it moaned on the ground, Fred's fists curled anew. "Tell him, Jago! Tell him how you left Morse behind to deal with Sturgill on his own." Jago said nothing, but, then again, it wasn't as if Thursday had given him a chance to speak, so righteous was his rage. "Go on, I already questioned Sturgill, he's nothing to gain. And then when Morse realized what you'd done, you tried to cover it up by attacking him in hospital, fresh from surgery. He's bleeding out again, but that shouldn't be news to you, since it was _you_ that ripped his stitches!" 

Ronnie stared gape-mouthed in disbelief as Thursday's vitriolic words were hurled at the bloody detective sergeant on the ground before him, pushing himself up to glare at Fred's audacity. The accusations being flung were damning, to say the least, yet Jago hadn't denied a single one. Box didn't know what to think, anymore. 

Fred then crouched down on his haunches, so that he was level with Alan scrambling up on the ground. "But, was that before or after you ripped out the morphine tube from his hand and left your fingerprints on him?"

" _Alan!_ Is this true?" Box commanded incredulously.

Jago scoffed loudly as best he could with a busted nose. "' _Alan?'_ You can't be _serious_ , Ronnie--" 

"Answer the _goddamned question_ , Alan."

Detective Chief Inspector Ronnie Box stared down his bagman, daring him to lie to his face, once again. If what Thursday had said was true, then it mirrored those accusations leveled against his detective sergeant by Morse earlier, when Ronnie hadn't even considered entertaining them. But, now? Now, the situation was looking dire for Jago. 

A situation that could spell the end of his career.

Box would give him one last chance for redemption. Before Thursday ripped him apart before his very eyes.

"Alan," Box began, truly at a loss for words, "just _answer_ the question."

Wiping at the blood streaming from his nose, Jago met Box's furious gaze warily, avoiding that of Fred Thursday with only the greatest of effort. He sighed once, slightly nasal in its delivery. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I _fucked up_ , alright?" Alan began, looking sufficiently cowed by Thursday's anger. "Thought I'd teach him a thing or two about footwork, didn't expect it to all go so _wrong_. When I saw him in hospital, I'd thought it'd be easy, convincing him to lie about it all. But, _damn_ is he a stubborn sod...I may have gone a _bit_ too far with him--" 

Jago only heard Thursday's roar of absolute anger before Fred had heard plenty, and kicked him hard enough in the mouth that a tooth loosened and went skittering across the pavement before Jago slumped to the ground with a groan.

Amidst Box's panicked demeanor did Fred simply walk back towards the back entrance of the hospital, incredulous declarations from his harried DCI notwithstanding. " _Thursday?! You can't just leave him here! Fred!_ "

Fred stopped, looking askance over his shoulder as he re-entered the building. "Don't worry, I'll send for a stretcher." The door then shut solidly behind him, allowing Thursday to catch a last glimpse of Box frantically attempting to rouse his wayward bagman, and he shook his head, eyebrows raised high. 

"Eventually."

* * *

True to his word, Thursday had ensured a stretcher was sent for the duplicitous detective sergeant, but only after he had verified first that Morse had been sufficiently stabilized. Fred had sat patiently in the waiting room until he heard as much, ignoring the scandalized glare that Ronnie threw his way when Jago's medical convoy came bustling through some time later. The time-worn DI feared no repercussions from his actions, not after Jago had admitted to his blatant malfeasance. Not that he much cared if he did. What he had done had been thoroughly justified, in his eyes.

Thursday returned often in the days following, ensuring that no further harm could befall Morse, either from Sturgill, or Jago's associates. In the time that had passed, it was discovered that Ian Sturgill had in fact been the one to murder and dispose of Alice Wilkins' body, her throat slit near clean across, her half-clothed form eventually found two days past, in a field abutting Sturgill's work address.

The knife was the same as had been used to nearly dispatch of Morse.

It was a tragic ending to a disastrous series of events, but in the end, Thursday was certain to let Morse know that when all was said and done, he had single-handedly taken down a murderer.

Morse wasn't certain how to react to that as he lay recovering for his fourth and final day in hospital, so he didn't. At least, he didn't with words spoken to Thursday directly, but his former guv'nor could always read his face like a familiar book, so open it was. The lad was having a difficult time with it all, to be certain, and there was naught Thursday could do to cheer him. 

Until there was.

As Morse signed his discharge papers, and prepped himself to finally leave the depressing convalescent ward, Thursday placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated as he had been about to rise. "Morse," he began softly, "Jago hasn't been fired, but has been reassigned temporarily. After he's released from hospital."

He watched as Endeavour's expressive eyes flitted from shock, to disappointment, and finally to curiosity. "Where is he going-- _wait_. Why's he in hospital?"

Fred squeezed a reassuring hand upon Morse's shoulder, and rubbed at it encouragingly. "I think you know why, lad." Endeavour broke eye contact suddenly, looking at an interesting spot on his trouser leg. 

"I'm...I'm not sorry, but, all the same," he stammered, finishing with a quiet, "thank you."

There was a moment more of silence between old colleagues, then Morse asked, "Where will he be going?"

Fred shrugged, a playful smile alighting his features. "It's only temporary, but he'll be Oxford's newest crossing guard. Under Mr. Bright, of course."

A quick upturn of his lips, a ghost of a smile was all Fred need know about Morse's thoughts on the matter, his eyes shining brightly with amusement when he declared, "Those poor children."

"Indeed," agreed Fred, who then shifted in his seat awkwardly and leaned forward, clapping his hands together as he thought his best to broach the next subject at hand. 

Endeavour's eyes searched his own questioningly, sensing that something else was amiss. "Sir...what else aren't you telling me?"

A deep, shameful sigh parted Thursday's lips, as he hung his head low for a moment.

"Morse," Fred looked up once more, "I'm sorry, that you had to go through all of this, that you were very nearly killed because of the careless and heartless actions of a colleague...and also for the way I've been treating you as of late. I've second guessed your intellect in front of Box and Jago, that _bastard_ , belittled you--" 

"Sir!" Endeavour cried in protest. "You've...your own family to worry about, your own life, I'm not--" Morse paused, quite unsure as how to finish his own thought. When he finally continued, he struck Fred as one who wasn't at a loss for words, just simply _lost_. "I'm not sure why I'm of your concern, of anybody's concern, really--" 

"Endeavour," Fred interrupted, and that caught the lad's attention. "You will _always_ be under my watch, so long as I live and breathe. Are we clear?"

A slight jerk of Morse's chin turned into a steady nod of his head, a bemused expression shaping his features into a faint smile. "Sir." 

Satisfied with his response, Fred stood from the uncomfortable plastic chair, stretching as he did so. "Well, then. Let's say we get you out of here and grab a real meal. Chippy?"

Morse smiled at this, accepting his guv'nor's assist in helping him to stand gingerly. "I can't argue with that, sir."

"Glad to hear it," Thursday declared, a firm hand atop Morse's shoulder to guide him from the room. He then swore to himself that if Alan Jago ever thought to lay a hand on the young detective sergeant again, he would be a dead man.

Fred had no idea just how prophetic his thoughts would be but a few weeks later.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I could stay away, but here we are...
> 
> I dedicate this chapter to the Sturgill's Landing Hiking Trail.
> 
> You, too, are the worst.


End file.
